


Christmas Caryls

by MichelleDV



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Romance, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21772087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Summary: My 2015, 2017, 2018, and 2019 Christmas Caryls.Some chapters have been beta'd, others haven't. I own nothing.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Carol Peletier, Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Kudos: 7





	1. Gave You My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Daryl surprises Carol for Christmas, her favorite holiday.

Last Christmas, he’d given her his heart. But unlike the song, she’d kept it well and cherished it, teaching him how to open it wider and let others in. Let it flourish.

This year, to save her from tears—she’d lost so much of herself when those girls passed—he set about surprising her. Not in the flashy, extravagant way Glenn and Abraham did for Maggie and Rosita. Theirs was a private love, known to the others but never on display; they didn’t thrive in the limelight.

He’d worked hard to keep it a surprise, wanting to share the moment with her alone. He’d learned early on how much she loved Christmas, but he’d read the sadness in her eyes as the day wore on: she didn’t have her baby to enjoy it with. Any of her children.

He slipped upstairs while she dried the dinner dishes Carl was washing, familiar enough with her evening ritual to know she’d be up shortly.

After drawing the curtains closed against the dark of the evening, he lit the candles he’d placed around the room—four small, dark green votives atop the dresser, one red one on each of the bedside tables, a large vanilla-scented one on top of the bookcase in the corner—and flicked off the light to test the mood.

It was perfect: dreamy, scented like…her, with the candlelight lending a hazy warmth to their room. He straightened the fuzzy red and green Christmas-plaid blanket at the foot of the bed, then checked the small CD player Olivia’d lent him to ensure the instrumental saxophone Christmas disc was inside. He pushed the play button, adjusted the volume to a comfortable background noise level, and stood in the center of the room facing the door.

The seconds ticked by, and in the romantic setting he’d created for her he felt awkward. He looked down at his socked feet, the dark, navy blue sweatpants he’d claimed, the simple white undershirt he hated so much but she loved on him. At times, he wished himself to be a different man. One with confidence and sure strides and experience making a woman feel treasured, with soft hands and perfect words and a past that hadn’t left him scarred. One that knew how to surprise and woo and act with honor.

Suddenly doubting his efforts, he tugged absently at his shirt hem with one hand, biting the thumbnail on his other.

She’d be up soon…any second now. Maybe his silly little plan to spend time with her, let her know how much he loved her... He sighed. _What was I thinkin’?_

He no longer feared or felt uncomfortable with her tears, but he’d hoped to keep them a stranger tonight. She didn’t often release them, but when she did it was in the confines of their room, usually against his chest. And especially around the few holiday celebrations they’d had. He wasn’t expecting somberness—she’d seemed genuinely happy the past few days, even to his Carol-trained eyes—but he knew how quickly they could bubble to the surface. If he couldn’t make her smile, he at least hoped to keep the demons away.

The doorknob turned quietly, and he snapped to attention.

She stepped into the room and had the door half-closed before she realized the room’s decor. Her eyes flicked to his. “Hi,” she greeted in surprise, as if they hadn’t just had dinner together. She closed the door. “What’s all this?”

His hands stupidly flew out from his side, palms up. “Merry Christmas.”

Her eyes roamed the room as she moved slowly toward him.

“I, uh…can’t buy ya nuthin’ because…” _Shut up, stupid._ “…I just wanted you ta have…I know Christmas is your favorite, and I….wanted ta make it nice for you.”

He’d tripped over his words, but his steps felt more sure when he closed the distance between them. She looked up at him, and though her lips never moved, he saw her smile.

He feathered one hand through her hair. “Dance with me?” he murmured.

Without a word, she stepped into his embrace, sliding her hands around his neck and laying her cheek against his heart.

Right where she belonged.

His hands rested lightly around her hips, and they shuffled slowly, rhythmically to the instrumental music playing.

They didn’t speak, choosing instead to talk with the brush of their bodies, a sigh of contentment into her curls, fingers rubbing gently against the hollow of her lower back, fingers threaded through his overgrown hair, and kisses placed lovingly against his chest through his shirt.

Several minutes passed. “Mm, this song’s my favorite,” she mumbled.

“I know. Made sure I found one from the music collection that had it.”

She stopped moving, and he followed suit, staring down at the woman he held in his arms and his heart. Her face broke into a sweet smile. “I love you,” she declared.

“Love you,” he responded, still getting used to speaking the words she’d taught him about. “Just wanted you to know how much.”

“I do,” she assured him, snuggling back into his arms.

They moved easily to the music, lost in a world of their own creation.

“Thank you.” Her voice was so low he wasn’t sure she’d actually spoken until she continued. “For this. For everything. Best Christmas I could’ve ever hoped for…being here with you.”

His heart soared, and he sighed contently. Why had he ever wanted to be someone else…when he had all he’d ever wanted right here in his arms?


	2. Mistletoed

For the past week, every night he’d trudged upstairs to his cell, he found mistletoe hanging above the doorway.

At first he didn’t know what it was, but as the group started talking about having a Christmas feast—which they’d asked him to provide the main course for—and as the temperature dropped, he put the pieces together and realized someone was trying to get his attention.

The first night, he took it down in confusion. The second—when he’d realized what it was—he removed it in embarrassment. The third night, he checked the entire cell block to make sure no one was watching him for his reaction. By the sixth night, he was just pissed. What kind of game was… _whoeve_ r trying to play?

“Cut this shit out,” he warned loud enough for his voice to bounce menacingly throughout the cell block to no one in particular. He flung the mistletoe to the ground, hoping if whoever kept leaving him the treat was watching, they’d get the hint he wasn’t interested, especially not in games.

Unless it was….

_Shut up. You know it ain’t her. She’s a kind good men dream about and wanna lavish with affection and attention. And no matter how badly you wanna be, you ain’t a good man. She’d just as soon shoot you in the knee than think about bein’ with you…lettin’ you touch her._

He shook off the demon voice that’d plagued him since he’d met her and went to bed.

The seventh day found him deer hunting, and though it took him most of the day, he bagged a decent-sized buck for the upcoming Christmas feast. He started the butchering, then left Hershel to finish as he educated Rick and Carl on the task.

Daryl ambled through the empty prison yard as dusk turned the sky over to the moon. The temperature had dropped considerably, and he ducked into the cell block, grabbed a bit of dried jerky to munch on, and headed toward the showers, grateful for the reprieve from the frigid air.

The warm water sluiced over his chilled skin and taut muscles, wiping away the day’s worth of filth, blood, sweat, and stench. He didn’t mind being out in the elements, getting dirty and living on the land, but coming home to the warm cocoon of the shower stall, a good, home-cooked meal waiting to fill his belly, and people he didn’t half mind…it was the best he’d ever had it.

He toweled himself dry, then rubbed the cloth vigorously over his hair. He dressed in the black sweat pants and faded gray t-shirt he left in the locker he’d claimed, then brushed his teeth. Throwing his smelly clothes into the large laundry cart, he made his way to the main cell block and trudged his tired body up the stairs.

All he could think about was falling onto that bed and drifting off. His muscles screamed for rest, and he was more than happy to oblige.

Until he saw the damned mistletoe hanging above his cell door again.

He stood on his tiptoes and stretched up to rip the offensive plant down, muttering curses under his breath and trying to figure out how he’d catch the culprit.

“Putting that up or taking it down?”

Carol’s voice snapped him to attention, and he crumpled the soft green petals in his hand, turning to face her. A cheeky smile lit her face with amusement.

He stared at her, always struck by her beauty, especially when the full force of it was set upon him. Those blue eyes ever watchful and observant, her soft, pink lips upturned at his expense, her toned arms crossed, emphasizing her figure: perfect breasts, cinched waist, and gently flared hips.

What was she doing here when he was so tired? He struggled to keep his thoughts in check.

She looked at him expectantly, but he continued staring blankly at her. “Lizzie said you wanted to talk to me?”

He mentally shook his head. Lizzie? “So that’s who,” he mumbled.

She gave him a quizzical look. “You looking for some action?” She indicated the plant in his hand. “Or you have something else in mind?”

“I…no! Yeah. I mean…aww, hell,” he stumbled over his own tongue.

She chuckled at his adorable awkwardness.

“Ain’t seen Lizzie all day. Don’t know why she sent ya… Don’t mean I don’t want you here,” he explained hurriedly when he saw her face fall.

“Oh?” she responded.

He shuffled his feet dumbly. “Jus’…don’t know what she’s about.”

“Think it has something to do with that?” She pointed at the mistletoe.

He stared down at it instead of at her and shrugged one shoulder, wishing she’d let the subject drop. He had no idea if that fool girl had been the one leaving him the love plant. Didn’t seem like many of the others had time to play games, let alone the desire to mess with him. It all seemed so ridiculous and yet—

Carol moved closer to him and gripped his hand, pulling it up to look at the plant he’d crumpled, and he froze.

Her hand was soft and held his gently, his skin sparking where she touched him. He met her eyes, nervous and hesitant, but she smiled gently at him. “’S not how you use it.” She plucked it from his hand and held it over her head, staring up at him with those big blue eyes that saw right into his soul. “It’s more like this.”

He swallowed hard, frozen stiff even though every muscle in his body screamed at him to lean toward her and taste her teasing lips.

Time seemed to freeze, and all he could do was stare. She was asking him to kiss her? Had he lost his mind? Fallen in the shower and hit his head? The world had suddenly taken a dangerous tilt on its axis.

Either that or his dream was coming true.

She waited, keenly aware of the look of desire flooding his eyes, the tension in his body rolling off of him in waves and crashing into her.

She hadn’t misread the signs; he’d just been dumbstruck by her boldness.

_One way to fix that…_

She stretched up on her tiptoes, leaning toward him, but her arm still couldn’t reach to hold the mistletoe above his head. She allowed herself to lean against him, one hand splayed over his muscled chest to hold her steady, the other reaching high above him.

His eyes never left hers, merely widened in surprise and….awe.

“This works too,” she murmured. “Doncha think?”

He couldn’t think. Not really. Not with her looking at him like she was ready to devour him and pressing against him like she belonged there.

He hoped she thought she did.

He eased toward her slowly, memorizing every detail of this moment. The spread of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The long lashes fanning up above her widened eyes. The soft lips smiling at him as he moved to kiss her.

“Mmm” he hummed.

She felt the vibration of his chest where she touched him, and it sent shivers through her. She saw his eyes flick down to her lips before she closed her own, awaiting the sensation of his lips touching hers. His hand sent heat flooding through her body when he placed it against her back, and she leaned fully against him, unable to stop herself from touching him as much as possible.

But he didn’t kiss her, not her lips anyway. His mouth brushed the corner of her lips, and she sighed, both in anticipation and wonder at his reverent touch.

He felt the expulsion of her breath, and it sent his head spinning. He ached to kiss her thoroughly, properly, but he had to work up to it. He never thought he’d have the opportunity, but now that she’d instigated it, he felt certain he’d screw it up. And damn if she hadn’t caught him at a weak moment, worn out, tired, and hungry.

And not only for food.

His lips grazed the other side of her mouth, and his heart pounded wildly as he readied himself to kiss her fully. He was terrified, excited. And so turned on by the thought of her wanting him to that he thought he might implode.

With one hand settled at the small of her back to ensure he didn’t spin out of control, he moved his head and settled his lips against hers. His heart thundered in his chest, and he considered he might be dreaming.

She was so soft, her lips moving sensually against his, her sighs and moans getting trapped in his throat and causing responsive groans of his own.

He needed more of her, and without thinking he slipped his other hand around her waist and drew her closer until she was pressed firmly against him. He felt the hand that’d been on his chest slide over his shoulder and into his hair, holding him firmly in place.

As if he planned on going anywhere.

Her other hand dropped the kissing plant—thank God for the annoyance of it!—rested on the crown of his head, then slipped down through his hair, sending jolts of pleasure through his veins. He spread his hands wide against her lower back and slid them up, feeling the curves and ridges of her body, her spine, her shoulder blades, and the tense muscles above them.

She was soft and perfect and in his arms and kissing him like her life depended on it, and he still couldn’t get enough.

He cupped her head with one hand while the other continued its exploration of her back, finally coming to rest just above the curve of her butt.

She pulled away from him, resting her forehead against his and panting against his tingling lips. “Merry Christmas to me,” she quipped.

He chuckled, trying to catch his breath and wanting to go back for more.

“If you’re gonna do something…do it right,” she breathed, implying he already had.

“Oh, I plan to,” he assured her and kissed her again, tugging her along with him as he shuffled his way into his cell. 


	3. Operation Christmas Caryl

“You gonna jingle her bells?”

“Don’t be an asscap or I’ll cap your ass.”

“Better calm down or your hair’s gonna catch the rest of us on fire.”

Abraham peered around Glenn to Tara, then shoved him into her, causing her to stumble.

“Who’s the asscap now?” she grumbled, glaring at Abraham.

“Him.” Glenn joined the glaring.

Tara righted herself, and they kept walking. “I’m still gonna call you Jingle Bells,” she sassed.

“Whatever you say, Fruitcake.”

Glenn tried to hide his chuckling but instead busted out laughing.

“What are you laughing at, Stocking Stuffer?” Abraham grumbled.

“Stocking Stuffer?” Glenn managed to look both offended and confused.

“Yeah…you’re so tiny I could shove you into the toe of my sock. Keep laughin’ it up,” Abarham warned.

Glenn turned to Tara. “You totally missed your chance. He’s not Jingle Bells. He’s more like Gingerbread.”

It was Tara’s turn to chortle, not even attempting to muffle it.

“Dickwad.”

“Even as Gingerbread, at least you get to go home to Chestnuts,” Tara placated him.

Abraham opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it and nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”

“That’s more like Maggie,” Glenn protested.

“She can be Cranberries. You know…those rosy cheeks and….stuff,” Tara finished lamely.

Abraham chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

“Ohhh, what about Rick?” Tara bounded on her feet in excitement.

“He’s Grumpy,” Abraham supplied.

“That’s a dwarf, not an elf, numb-nuts,” Tara reprimanded.

Glenn snickered. “He’s like Santa. You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why….” he sing-songed.

“Rick’ll kill your ass,” Abraham finished, voice deadpan.

“Something like that.”

“Oh, and Judith’s Mini-Marshmallow. You know, they go on top of hot chocolate,” Tara offered.

Abraham and Glenn looked at each other. “Michonne,” they said in unison.

“She _is_ hot,” Tara admitted. “And Judy’s always sitting on her lap. Oh, and Carl’s Ruldolph. A bit gangly as he’s growing up. He hasn’t had a zit on his nose yet, but I’m sure it’s coming.”

“You’re enjoying this game entirely too much,” Abraham noted.

“And you’re not?” she rejoined.

“Eugene’s our own special little snowflake,” Glenn offered.

“God, that’s perfect!” Tara gushed. “And Gabriel’s the Grinch.”

Abraham chuckled.

“Not nice…though it _is_ true,” Glenn added.

“Sasha, poor thing…she’s Candy Cane.”

“Why’s that?” Abraham wondered.

“Got both the pure, sweet part of her mixed with the…loss and anger. She’s a hot, striped mess,” Tara explained. “Ohh, and Carol’s our Christmas Carol,” she stated triumphantly.

“Cute, but not original,” Glenn told her.

“She’s more like an angel,” Abraham threw in. “Watching over everyone. Sittin’ atop the tree.”

“Which is Daryl,” Tara exclaimed proudly.

Glenn looked at her, shocked.

“What?” she asked innocently. “He’s prickly but nice to look at. And they’re _so_ doing it.”

“Can’t blame him if he is,” Abraham admitted with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Or her,” Tara chimed in.

“They are pretty perfect together,” Glenn mused.

“You think they are? You know…caroling bells?” Abraham wondered.

“You mean is she Carol _of_ the Bells?” Tara corrected.

He shrugged. “Whatever. Ringing the bells. Silvering the bells. Jingling the bells.”

“ _He_ should be the one caroling…ya know what I mean? But I’d bet on it.”

“I’m not so sure…” Glenn countered. “They’re close, but…I think Maggie—”

“You mean Cranberries,” Tara interjected.

“Yeah. Cranberries and I would know.”

“So you think he’s got blue Christmas bells?” Abraham questioned with a satisfied smirk.

Tara guffawed, both at the question and at Glenn’s look of disgust. “One way to cure it…make sure his Blue Christmas—”

“Turns into a White Christmas,” Abraham interjected proudly.

“Oh God…I think I need an eggnog cocktail to chase that image away,” Glenn groaned.

A devious look stole across Tara’s face. “Eeeegs-actly,” she punned. “We’ll need some mistletoe, chocolate, and wine from the pantry. Think we can sweet-talk Olivia?”

“I’m outta this one,” Abraham stated, hands up in defeat.

“Whatever you say, Gingerbread,” Tara snarked, then turned back to Glenn conspiratorially. “Think we can get Santa, Hot Chocolate, Rudolph, and Mini-Mallow out of the house one night?”

“I think Cranberries, Candy Cane, and I can handle that.”

“Then leave everything else to me.”

“Fruitcake,” Abraham reminded her.

She glared at him. “I think Tinsel suits me better. I’m festive and bright,” she declared with a proud smile.

“Fruitcake to me.”

She rolled her eyes, waving her hand in dismissal at him. “Back to Operation Place-the-Angel-Atop-the-Tree.”


End file.
